


Cuckoo over Iserlohn

by Eulerian



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Blind Character, Crack Relationships, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 17:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15148382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eulerian/pseuds/Eulerian
Summary: Collection of AUs. Multiple pairings.





	1. Coffee Shop AU: Bittenstein 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iserlohn (lincesque)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque/gifts).



> This is the first time I've written fanfiction in about ten years so please. No holding back. Tell me this work sucks if it does; I need to know!

There were some things that money simply couldn’t buy -good company, close friends, and the look on somebody’s face right before a fist was planted into it. Priceless. Unfortunately for Bittenfeld, what couldn’t be paid for in money could and often had to be bartered for something else in return. That was how he found himself working back on the bottom rung of the food industry rather than a comfortable security job with actual benefits. He supposed he should have been grateful that nobody pressed any charges but instead, the thought that he was just another insignificant gnat to some fat bastard big shot sent his hackles up. He could never the fact that some problems could be solved just by throwing enough money at it.

As far as places went, however, the Iserlohn on Imperial Street wasn’t a bad place to work. The pay was good enough, even if he did have to take his turn cleaning the toilets. Coffee was brewed fresh every fifteen minutes, something of a miracle to Bittenfeld, who had spent the entirety of his security guard nights drowned in ten-hour old, bottom-of-the-pot joe. His only real complaint was that the place had to be constantly spotless, least they invite the withering look of disapproval from the manager. It wasn’t that he was a bad person; on the contrary, Siegfried Kircheis had the mannerism and looks of a saint, something which endeared him -and the shop by proxy- to the coffee drinking crowd. The problem was that Kircheis was one of those people who seemed _too_ perfect to be true -too nice, too gentle, too calm. Seeing him break character and be the slightest bit upset was like watching the sun die.

The other employees, at least, were much less dramatic. There was Mittermeyer, the assistant manager who was known for being able to do basically everything in mere seconds. Once, Bittenfeld had spilled some milk on the counter, blinked, and then Mittermeyer was standing next to him with a rag in hand, the spill already gone. The quietest person in the shop was Lutz, who was in between jobs and mainly came around to close up shop in the evening. Bittenfeld didn’t talk too much with him but on the few occasions when he did, Lutz had sported that sort of quiet humor where the punchline sat for full five minutes before hurtling in with the force of a flying brick. Fahrenheit, Bittenfeld actually already knew from high school; they’d skip class together to start off-campus fights with student drug dealers for the hell of it. From what he had seen, though, Fahrenheit had mellowed out since then. It was a bit of a shame but Bittenfeld couldn’t blame him. Besides, it was nice to be finally able to shoot the breeze with somebody without getting reprimanded. The baby of the shop was a medical student named Muller, who actually was second only to Mittermeyer in terms of seniority despite his age. If Bittenfeld hadn’t known better, he would have thought all of the younger man’s hair had greyed from the sheer stress of it. But no. Muller simply was a freak of nature. 

With the morning shift done and the sun actually up in the sky, people started ordering more of the iced drinks. Which was fine but what Bittenfeld really want to do was take somebody by the shoulders and scream at the person a little for buying them. All of the refreshers were half ice. An iced matcha latte was even worse because of the powder clumps. An iced caramel macchiato actually contained vanilla, and the only caramel that went into it was the drizzle on the ice. There was absolutely no difference between a caramel frappe and a coffee one. At least making the frappes amused him. The whipped cream was a bitch to use, though.

“Triple mocha frappuccino for” -he squinted at Muller’s terrible medical student scrawl before doing a double take. “Oh, it’s you. Attenborough.” 

There was actually another Iserlohn coffee shop within a one mile radius on Alliance Avenue; it was relatively new and more of a coffee stand stuck in the middle of a supermarket rather than an actual location on its own. There were a grand total of four people working there in barely overlapping shifts; compared to Imperial Street and its six employees, it was only barely functioning. The moment one person wanted to grab a vacation or was otherwise out for more than a day, the entire place immediately descended straight to hell. Bittenfeld had gotten lucky; that store had been just a day late in responding to his application. Attenborough, however, had been at that shop since it opened, ignoring his perfectly good degree in business out of “foppery and whim.”

The man in question made a winced a bit as he came forward. “Fritz, you sound like my old professors,” Attenborough complained. “Why is your store so uptight? I even heard that your supreme overlord’s on vacation with his boyfriend.”

“Reinhard is _not_ his boyfriend,” Bittenfeld said automatically, because he was pretty sure they were both the girls to Hilda’s tomboy. Girls were supposed to be fluffy, dramatic, and a bit prone to angrily kicking people in the shin. Logically, that made Reinhard one of them, and even if he hadn’t seen Kircheis be pettily violent towards anybody _yet_ , Bittenfeld knew it was coming. The quiet ones were always the most dangerous. “And aren’t you on shift right now?”

“Well yes,” Attenborough admitted. “But we never got the recipe cards for the seasonal frappes and after like ten people ordered the triple mocha, we drew straws to see who’d get to spy on you.” The shifty look on his face implied that drawing it was considered more of a loss than a win.

Bittenfeld rolled his eyes but went to get a pen and some receipt paper. “Isn’t this what you have a manager for?”

Attenborough laughed, sounding both nervous and embarrassed. “Funny story about that. I kind of. Accidentally incited a family dispute and he’s gone to figure it out.” Although, since it was Schonkopf they were talking about, it might have been more appropriate to say _punch out_. That was why Bittenfeld had the deepest respect for the man. Violence wasn’t always the answer but it sure was an effective one at times. 

“Oh my God, what did you _do_?” Evidently eavesdropping on their conversation, Muller now stuck his head out over the syrups in interest. “Please tell me it has nothing to do with us; I don’t want to die before the age of thirty.”

“Gez, I _wish_ it had been about you.” Attenborough sighed ruefully. “I might have introduced him to a girl.”

“Oh, then that’s all right,” Bittenfeld said with a nod. “Was she ugly or something?” Schonkopf was the sort of guy who had so many girls throwing themselves at him that he probably could afford to be shallow.

Because he was looking for it, he could see all the color drain from Attenborough’s face. “What, no!” That was probably the most alarmed Bittenfeld had ever heard him. “Ugh, no it wasn’t like _that_. Julian knows her from school and apparently she’s Walter’s _daughter_.”

Bittenfeld stopped, doing the numbers in his head. He was pretty sure Julian Mintz was in high school at the youngest, probably older because all the machinery in the shop had giant stickers proclaiming it illegal for anybody under eighteen to handle. “But he’s not that much older than me,” he pointed out, aghast.

The other man beamed crookedly at him. “Yep, that’s right! Now the boss man’s gone to apologize to his ex and cough up all the missed years of child support. So we’re not supposed to call him unless the store burns down. Again. It was a _small_ fire <,” he amended at Muller’s choke. 

“Say no more; here’s that recipe for the triple mocha.” As quickly as he could, he wrote down the ingredients without instructions, trusting that Attenborough at least knew had to make a regular frappe. _Frappe roast, milk, mocha, ice, coffee base. Cold brew whip on the bottom of cup with mocha drizzle. Same for the top._ In other words, it was diabetes in a cup. “Think of it as a whipped cream sandwich and you’re good,” he said, handing the sheet over. “Now get out of our shop, you Alliance scum.” 

The other man gave him a mock salute that ended with a finger gun and Bittenfeld gave him a single finger in response, grinning a bit when Attenborough laughed. Sure, he was glad he didn’t work on the Avenue but at least the people there had a sense of humor and the atmosphere was pretty upbeat. Sometimes, Kircheis’s absolute serenity could be disturbing. Making a mistake before him was like sinning before God Himself. 

After taking care of Attenborough, activity ground down to a trickle. The worst part of the morning shift was that once everybody had gotten their coffee, there wasn’t much else to do except check the timers around the shop to replace the coffee, milk, and sanitizer. It was too early to sample out the iced teas, too early to spray down the syrup pumps, and too early to switch out the mocha and chai. There was a reason why Bittenfeld preferred the afternoon shifts over the morning.

At approximately eleven o’clock, the espresso machine rebelled and had a nervous breakdown. Bittenfeld stared at the dials near the top, the ones that were used to control the consistency of the grind. He was sure that he had calibrated them correctly; the machine had even told him to. Now it was giving him mysterious errors as he frantically Googled the problem on his phone. The general consensus seemed to be torn between “Clean the grinds drawer out” -which he did- and “Fuck, you’re screwed” -which he was so long as Muller was still on break and Lutz wasn’t due for another hour. 

As Bittenfeld was putting in the cleansing pellets for the third time, he heard somebody clear their throat from the register. “Sorry, I’ll be with you in a moment!” he called out, glaring daggers at the espresso machine. Suddenly, he understood why everybody was telling him that their equipment was ancient. Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. Maybe instead of trying to fix it, he should _break it harder_. That way, corporate would have to actually replace the piece of junk.

“Sorry about that,” he said as he returned to the counter, trying very hard not to grimace. Instead, he plastered his customer service smile back on, the kind that he tried to make as tranquil as Kircheis’s but really just came off as the tiniest bit constipated. “What can I get for you? Just as a warning, the espresso machine is broken.”

The only person in line was dark-haired and unfamiliar. If he squinted a bit, Bittenfeld might have said that he looked a bit like Oskar, minus the blue eye and plus the grey in his hair. “Regular coffee is fine,” the man said slowly, staring forward. His eyes were so dead that Bittenfeld almost recoiled. The man’s voice sent a peculiar shiver down his spine. “If you happen to have it?”

“Uh, yeah, that we do,” Bittenfeld said warily. He wasn’t one to be put off by other people but _damn_ , was this guy looked stoned. It wasn’t even late at night. “Medium roast or dark? And what size for you?”

“Dark in a medium cup, please,” came the answer. Still staring forward, he didn’t seem to notice Bittenfeld’s discomfort.

Bittenfeld rang the order up quickly, hoping to get the customer out of the way as soon as possible. “All right, that’s two-twenty. Do you need room for cream and sugar?” 

“No. Thank you.” And then, as Bittenfeld watched, he carefully took out a wallet, meticulously going over each bill and coin with long, pale fingers. Bittenfeld could never admit it but for a period of time, he was mesmerized by the sight. 

As the man counted out exact change, something shifted in the corner of Bittenfeld’s vision. As discreetly as possible, he shifted so he could see what was on the other side of the counter. Most of his view was obstructed but what he did see was a long, spotted tail. 

“Hey, we don’t-” he started.

“This should be enough” the man said at the same time.

The two of them stopped to consider each other. Bittenfeld was, however, compelled by his job to be polite and thus bowed out first to count the cash. “Yeah, this is enough,” he said, with the barest hint of a sigh. “Give me a moment to get your coffee, please. I’ll meet you down the line.”

That’s what he thought he had said, anyways but nobody was present at the service counter when he set down the coffee. When Bittenfeld took a glance back at the register, he saw the man hanging off a little way from it, a dalmatian at his side. 

“Er, sir?” When the man turned his head towards him, Bittenfeld gestured to the cup. “Sir, you coffee?” That seemed to snap him out of whatever thought was he was seemingly stuck in. It was strange; he didn’t seem the sort to be lost in thought.

It was only after the man had made it to the counter that Bittenfeld suddenly registered the slender white cane in his hand and the dalmatian’s blue service dog vest. Feeling a bit foolish, he shifted in place as the man felt around for his cup. 

Sheer embarrassment pushed the small talk out of him. “Are you new to the area?” Bittenfeld asked, politely trying not to project the sense of _oh my God, you’re_ blind _and I didn’t even notice, I’m so sorry, would it be rude for me to just put this in your hand?_ “I haven’t seen you around before.” He was also pretty sure that somebody would have mentioned a blind regular. 

For somebody who couldn’t see, that man had an uncanny ability to look him straight in the eyes. Bittenfeld had forced himself to meet his gaze. “Returning, actually,” he replied after a moment. 

Bittenfeld pushed the cup a little closer to the man’s hand and waited but he wasn’t forthcoming with anymore information. “Work related reasons?” Bittenfeld tried. At the curt affirmation, he asked, “What kind of work do you do?”

“I am a prosecutor,” the man said flatly, fingers curling around the cup at last. “Please excuse me. I must be going.”

“Sure, wouldn’t want to keep you,” Bittenfeld agreed, mouth running mindlessly to fill the awkward spaces. “I’m Bittenfeld -er Fritz Bittenfeld. If you need anything let me know.” What. _No_ , why was he offering that? “I’m here most days in the mid morning and early afternoon,” his stupid mouth continued. 

“Of course,” the other man said coolly, unaware that Bittenfeld was about two seconds away from banging his own head against the wall. “Good day.”

Uselessly, all Bittenfeld could do was echo the farewell and watch him leave. About two minutes later, when the coffee timer went off and he was brewing another pot of dark roast, he realized that he hadn’t ever gotten the man’s name.


	2. Coffee Shop AU: Bittenstein 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where all of my ability to write flies right out of the window. I am currently filing a missing person's report on it.

The ancient espresso machine was tragically destroyed when somebody who might or might not have been Bittenfeld accidentally ripped off the milk steamer while trying to clean it. The entire shop rejoiced, quietly because Kircheis had come back and his mere presence rubbed balm all over everybody’s emotions. Two days later, cooperate revealed itself to have an ironic sense of humor by sending a different but identical piece of junk model to the store, stomping on everybody’s hopes of finally moving into the 21st century.

“At least it runs a bit more smoothly,” Fahrenheit remarked mournfully over the sound of steaming milk. “I mean, it doesn’t make that funny noise for as long as the other one did.”

“It’s just unfair,” Bittenfeld said, from where he was doing the dishes. “We’ve obviously got enough old equipment in storage but Alliance gets new stuff anyways? They’re not even a _real_ Iserlohn.”

“Yes, but they’re _franchised_ ,” Fahrenheit pointed out. “They can do whatever they want.” Setting his finished cup on the service counter, he called out, “Two skim cappuccinos for Ernest!”

“I just don’t like it,” Bittenfeld said, eying the mustached man who stepped forward. Keeping one cup for himself, he handed the second off to a pretty woman with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. They were irregular regulars -the sort of people who came in every so often on no particular schedule. “First it was the drip coffee, the espresso machine, and then it was the ice machine. Everything’s falling apart!”

Fahrenheit shrugged as he moved onto the next order. “That’s not my problem so I don’t really care,” he confessed. “I’m just here for the money and free education.”

Bittenfeld opened his mouth and then closed it. The line was so classic Fahrenheit that he couldn’t find a suitable retort.

The noontime crowd hit them a few minutes later with a single, crushing wave. First it was just one person ordering six different frappuccinos from their single blender. Then it was somebody who wanted a half coconut milk, half water iced caramel macchiato, extra two shots, hold the caramel, hold the ice, add mocha drizzle, add whip, and replace the vanilla syrup with two pumps hazelnut and one pump mocha. They sent it back because they decided that they had wanted two pumps of mocha and one pump of hazelnut all along. That marked the moment when things really became wild.

Muller took command of the register and the cups as Bittenfeld and Fahrenheit manned different espresso machines, turning the entire thing into an impromptu race to clear the line. Because life could never be simple or nice, Fahrenheit’s orders were all refrigerated coffee with ice while Bittenfeld somehow ended up with all of the blended drinks. All twenty of them. By the thirteenth drink, he had run out of whipped cream. By the fifteenth, he had begun to seriously re-consider his stance on making frappucinos. When the twentieth rolled in, Bittenfeld backslid into numb acceptance of his fate. What other drinks? There _were_ no other drinks. He had become one with the blender.

That all changed the moment Muller set one of the hot cups on the counter. Sensing respite, Bittenfeld pounced on it before Fahrenheit could return to his station. It was a standard dark coffee, no room for cream. Literally the simplest thing on the menu, it was a godsent after the endless train of frozen drinks. Cheered a little, he filled the cup to the brim. 

“Dark coffee for Paul!” he called out on reflex, blinking at the person who waited there. 

Meeting him at the counter was a familiar, sullen face greeting him with a curt nod. “Bittenfeld.” The syllables were deep with disinterest and unconsciously, Bittenfeld went on the edge. There was simply something about this man that seemed to invite a fist to the face. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. It could have been the fact that he had seen more emotion from roadkill than that guy. Or maybe it was the slimy aura around him.

With the line still going, Bittenfeld began preparing the next cup Muller had set down. It was, of course, another frappucino. “I hope things are going well?” he asked into the awkward lull, hoping maybe that the sound would scare him away. It worked with animals, after all. 

“It’s going,” the man answered succinctly. Like the other day, he didn’t seem keen on elaborating. 

Bittenfeld, frowning at the answer, started to sense a trend. Before he could formulate an appropriate response, however, he was saved by Fahrenheit.

“Oberstein?” Fahrenheit sounded surprised as he handed off the last of his orders. “It’s been a while. I didn’t know you were back in town.”

At the sound of his name, Oberstein’s shoulders tensed so slightly that Bittenfeld was left wondering if he had really seen it at all. His brow furrowed and after a pause, he appeared to recognize the voice. “Fahrenheit, is that right? I heard you were back in school.”

“That’s right,” Fahrenheit said. “As long as I work here, though, they’ll pay my tuition. I’ll be done in a year or two. Not too sure what happens after that.”

Oberstein didn’t say anything, not even a single sound of acknowledgment. He looked completely and utterly blank, like he was wearing a mask instead of his actual face. 

To Bittenfeld’s incredulity, Fahrenheit didn’t seem terribly perturbed by the lack of response. “Are things going well? How’s your brother?”

“He’s dead,” Oberstein said and, _wow_. Bittenfeld swore that there wasn’t even inflection in his voice. It was actually incredible in a horrifying way that somebody could be that soulless. Meanwhile, from beside him, Fahrenheit flinched so hard that it was audible. That one line didn’t just destroy the conversation; it nuked the conversation from orbit. 

_What a cold-hearted bastard._ Bittenfeld didn’t understand how people could just shrug off personal tragedies like that. Some people might have thought they were above petty things like emotions but Bittenfeld knew better. When it came down to it, everybody showed _some_ kind of reaction. The fact that Oberstein didn’t _at all_ meant that there really must have been something wrong with that asshole’s head.

“Please excuse me,” Oberstein muttered. “I should be going.”

 _”That’s right, you son of a bitch_ ,” Bittenfeld thought furiously. _”We lose absolutely nothing of value when you’re gone.”_ Except the dog. The dog could stay.

“Sure, any time,” Fahrenheit said mildly, proving that he was a better person than Bittenfeld and had put his high school days behind him. “You know where to find me. And I _am_ sorry about your brother.”

Giving no indication that he had heard, Oberstein turned heel and left. The dog went with him. Once the door had closed, Bittenfeld immediately spun towards his coworker. 

“How do you even know that guy?” he demanded. 

“Who? Oberstein?” Fahrenheit shrugged. “Our families used to move in the same circles, only the Obersteins are even older money than we were. They stopped talking to us after we lost the fortune but every now and then, a mutual friend will pass along updates. I hadn’t heard about his brother, though. It’s a shame; they were close once.”

Bittenfeld thought back to empty eyes and dead words with scarcely a hint of body language.“How can you _tell_?” 

Fahrenheit shrugged again, reaching for the next cup. Bittenfeld followed suit. “You don’t. It’s mainly guesswork. Paul von Oberstein is a private person and squeezing words out of him is a bit like pulling teeth -it’ll bother you a lot more than it’ll hurt him. As far as I can remember, he’s always been a bit like that.”

“I could believe that.” Most kids were cheerful, energetic, and naive. Bittenfeld couldn’t imagine that Oberstein had ever been that carefree. He had probably been one of those demon children that horror movies were written about: wraith-like in personality, with a tendency to know more than their years would allow. 

“I’m pretty sure he was displeased I brought it up, though. His older brother, I mean,” Fahrenheit said thoughtfully. “He’s normally more polite than that. In an Oberstein way, I suppose. As you could probably tell, he’s not especially popular with other people.”

“I think he’s just a sociopath,” Bittenfeld said. While he wasn’t paying attention, the milk steamed angrily over the lip of its pitcher. He cursed, leaping away to dunk his burnt hand into the nearest sink.

Wordlessly, Muller took a jar out from under the register and held it out to him. It was a mason jar with a slot cut in the lid. Taped proudly around it was a thick piece of yellow paper. _Swear Jar, 1 Dollar_ , it declared itself. There were already two bills inside of it. 

“We are a family friendly establishment,” the younger man said solemnly as Bittenfeld stared, punctuating each word for emphasis. “That’ll be one dollar.”

Fahrenheit gave him a helpless look when he turned to him. “He already got me twice when I accidentally closed the oven on my hand,” the man said, sheepish. 

Bittenfeld considered his options and then, reaching into his pocket, drew out two dollars and dropped them in for the hell of it. “You win this time, you fucking reject chamber pot,” he hissed, least the customers actually hear him. 

Fahrenheit made a noise that rated between laughter and a dying cat while Muller looked at him with the deepest disappointment. It didn’t work because Muller had absolutely nothing on Kircheis so the guilt trip did nothing to upset Bittenfeld’s conscience. Maybe in a few years, when he knew more ways to murderize somebody, Muller would actually be intimidating. For now, though, he was just. Cute. Like a kitten trying to be a tiger.

“What does the money go to anyways?” Bittenfeld asked some time later as the thought occurred to him. “You’re not just pocketing it, are you?” 

“Of course not!” Muller said with a look of great offense. “It’s for the entire store. You know, like when we need to replace things and corporate thinks it isn’t that big of a deal.” He glared right at the “new” espresso machine as he spoke.

“Muller, just how often do you think I swear?” Sure, Bittenfeld had a dirty mouth sometimes but it wasn’t like he dropped curses every other word. He did in fact know when to be polite. He only chose not to follow through with it very often.

The med student gave him a suspicious, sidelong glance. “Uh, is that a trick question?”

“It’s not a fuc -er, it’s not!” Damn Muller and his observations. “This proves nothing. Fahrenheit, tell him.”

The white-haired man nodded. “You should have seen him in his teens,” he said, completely throwing Bittenfeld under the bus. “One of our teachers was a veteran. Bittenfeld got into a cursing contest with him one day and won. I’d never seen a grown man cry that much before, and I haven’t seen it again since then.”

If looks could kill, Bittenfeld would have been arrested for murder on the spot. “It’s not my fault,” he said when Muller turned to him. “Fahrenheit dared me to do it. He even _taught me most of the words._ ”

“Who, me?” Fahrenheit was the picture of innocence, appearing to be shocked by the accusation. “I have no recollection of such an event. It’s not nice to blame your friends for your own poor behavior, you know.”

“Oh fuck you, Adalbert!” The swear jar was immediately thrust at his elbow. Bittenfeld growled, took out his wallet, and dumped ten dollars into the jar. “It’s for later,” he explained, when Muller raised an eyebrow. 

As the younger man returned to the register and Bittenfeld whispered under his breath, “This is such bullshit.”

“I heard that.”

“Shit.”


	3. Soulmate AU: Reuyang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is me trying to write like Iserlohn (the writer, not the fortress) and just spamming scraps instead of worrying about full length stuff.

He didn’t understand at first. Maybe it was the knowledge that the entire universe was waiting outside, that for the first time, all of Alliance and Imperial high command would meet under truce. Maybe it was the fact that this was a peace that could even last, if Reinhard von Lohengramm was the sort of man he presented himself as. Yang had never been good with political maneuvering so it was hard not to feel put on spot by the sheer force of everybody’s expectations.

A little bit nervously, he committed each name and face to memory, internally making a face as names became progressively more and more imperial. There were more von’s in that grand, suffocating room than he had ever rubbed shoulders with in his entire life. A little foolishly, he had thought Schonkopf to be the biggest character he would ever have the pleasure of meeting. Looking at the neatly lined admirals in front of him, however, Yang instantly retracted that premature conclusion. Admiral Bittenfeld in particular looked like he could give Schonkopf a run for his money. Some people simply had those sorts of faces that said they’d gladly rip a person to pieces while laughing but even knowing this, Yang felt a tiny bit on edge.

A significant gap in the lineup had to make him wonder for a moment who was important enough to be acknowledged even in absence. It was staring him in the face, this nothingness spaced between two admirals he already knew -Mittemeyer and Muller. Logically, it was probably for Fleet Admiral Reuenthal, who proved to be surprisingly elusive for a man known even in the Alliance for getting around.

That should have been his first clue about how wrong the situation was. Instead, he told silently, smiling blandly with the rest of his allies as the more unknown imperials introduced themselves. His second clue should have been the pause between Muller and Mittemeyer’s introductions but by that point, he was so done with listening to pretentious titles and names that he was simply relieved that nobody really needed reminding who those two were.

Somebody said something, or that’s what it seemed like anyways, because after all had been properly introduced and the Kaiser had ran through his obligatory “Welcome to Odin, don’t let the door slam on your way out” speech, a number of people stood at attention, Yang’s own men included. He pretended to be listening just as intently several of them were but honestly, he could not for the life of him pinpoint the speaker. Or if there really was one. A few fugitive glances from side to side clued him into the point that all were staring at -that empty space. The silence stretched on and on.

Finally, Yang cleared his throat, netting annoyed looks from the imperials. “Um, just what is everybody staring at?” Suddenly, everybody was looking at him.

After a pause, Frederica spoke from his side. “Admiral,” she said slowly, “We were listening to Fleet Admiral Reuenthal explain the full terms of the treaty.”

“He’s not here,” Yang said automatically and somebody made a stifled sound. On the imperial side, the annoyed stares were turning into those of confusion. Something was dawning on Admiral Mittemeyer’s face, the look of which told him that he should have just kept his mouth shut.

The expression in Frederica’s was for some reason pained. She opened her mouth, seemed to think better of it, and then said in a strangled voice, “Yang, he’s right there.”

Yang’s eyes wandered to the empty space again, the one that the imperials had broken rank to face. “I really don’t see anything. Er, is that a bad thing?” Even as he spoke, however, a dim memory was surfacing in the back of his mind, drowned out by years of empty space, ships, and his father. It was so close that he could practically feel it. The information was something that his father had called important but that he had dismissed once for whatever reason.

Conversations bloomed across the room, an almost welcome respite from the awkward silences earlier. Frederica stayed him in place as he went to speak with Schonkopf, who seemed pale from shock. She went instead herself. The entire time they talked, he looked right at that space, feeling more and more unnerved.

“Soulmates,” somebody laughed at last, a little hysterically, and that’s when it all fit into place.

Soulmates were common once but as populations boomed, the chances of a person finding theirs plummeted. Yang had always considered himself to be the sort that would never find his, being so content in his own little sphere that there was no reason to really explore the outside. In any case, the entire phenomenon was some kind of giant, sick joke from whatever god was out there, that there was somebody perfect for another in every way. But they could never interact, never see each other, never hear each other’s voice. It was a cruel twist of fate, existing only to taunt the people involved with what they could never have.

The empty space was only empty to him, apparently.


End file.
